


All up in his shit

by rivers_bend



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving In Together, Schmoop, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Taking a piss is one thing. Thousands of guys do it every day at urinals across the world. But when Adam refuses to leave Tommy alone to take a shit? That's just crazy. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All up in his shit

**Author's Note:**

> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply this ever happened. SERIOUSLY. OMG.   
> A/N: If you write schmoopy/kinky fic long enough in fandom, someone is bound to say something along the lines of, "But I bet you can't make scat fic hot." You might, in response, say, "Why would I want to?" like I did when someone said that to me, or you might go find a kink meme and anon fill some anon prompt just to see if you can. Or you might, like ~~autoschediastic~~ a certain someone who has deluded herself into thinking she's not gonna get named did, say, "Hmm. but what would make shit sexy?" and thus curse the challenger with a plot bunny about intimacy and what it means to have that with someone. This is not, strictly speaking scat _kink_ , so, sorry if that's what you're after. It's domestic kink with a side of piss, shit, puke, blood, come, and tears. Also a little hurt/comfort and a whole lot of love. Fair warning.

The only bathroom on the top floor of their new place is the master suite. Tommy wouldn't change anything about the house except maybe that. He's lazy, and once he's come upstairs for bed, he doesn't feel like going down to one of the guest bathrooms, but sometimes a guy wants to be able to do his thing without worrying about someone else standing right there brushing his teeth or whatever. 

Adam doesn't seem to care about that, happy to take a piss while Tommy's taking off his makeup, looking at him strangely when Tommy holds off doing the same the second or third night they're there, waiting until Adam's done flossing and on his way under the covers before he whips it out and relieves himself of the three beers he had at dinner. "You've come on my face, you know," Adam says once Tommy comes to bed. His argument isn't totally without merit, so Tommy tries to get over being piss shy in his own house. It takes about three weeks before he starts feeling comfortable, but now he can pee with Adam standing right there, doesn't even think about it. 

Taking a piss is one thing. Thousands of guys do it every day at urinals across the world. Adam's done him a favor, really. Always having to use a stall gets to be a pain in the ass sometimes. But when Adam refuses to leave Tommy alone to take a shit? That's just crazy. 

"Out," Tommy says again. Adam isn't even doing anything important, just dicking around with the drawer he's got his nail polish in. 

Adam leans hipcocked against the counter, arms crossed, the picture of stubborn boyfriend. "You're being ridiculous." 

"I want to take a shit. Privacy isn't too much to ask, I don't think. Would you do it with me in here?"

"Of course," Adam says, like Tommy just asked if he would drink a cup of coffee with his breakfast.

"Liar," Tommy says. But Adam doesn't look like he's lying. 

He also doesn't look like he's moving. 

"Fuck it," Tommy snaps. He goes downstairs and locks the door. 

And that, is the end of that. Except for how it's really not.

*

Tommy blames Neil, though it's the pair of them, really. Lamberts. Not to be trusted. They're out having drinks, and a guy at the next table is telling his date about a trip to South East Asia, and Neil, of course, has to tell a story about _his_ trip, even though they've heard them all a thousand times. Except, no, not this one, and fuck knows why he decided now, in the middle of a bar while there is _food_ nearby was a good time, but Neil is Neil, so it's best not to ask. Apparently, on one of their never-ending bus rides, Neil had to take a dump on the side of a road while his girlfriend held a towel up to block the view from the other passengers.

"See?" Adam says when Neil's tale is at last finished. Tommy glares, and Neil looks perplexed. Thankfully, Adam doesn't decide to explain. 

They have more drinks. Maybe, in Tommy's case, a few more than necessary. Well. A few more than advisable. They were fucking necessary after that story. Neil doesn't believe in skimping on details. When the taxi drops them off at home Adam practically has to drag him upstairs. Tommy tries to just flop on the bed, but Adam's a stickler about toothbrushing. Especially after alcohol. _All those sugars rot your teeth right out of your head._ Tommy's heard it too many times, so he doesn't argue. 

He's busy trying to make sure the bristles stay in his mouth and don't try to migrate up his nose or anything, and doesn't notice what Adam's doing until he hears the toilet flush and sees Adam stand up in his peripheral vision. 

"Please tell me you are too drunk to aim and just took a piss sitting down," Tommy says, dribbling toothpaste down his chin.

"Nope." Adam grins, all pleased with himself. 

"Ugh," Tommy complains. 

"Tell me," Adam says, mopping at Tommy's chin with a dampened wash cloth. "How is that more disgusting than you drooling toothpaste?" 

Adam's crazy. "It just is!" 

"Uh huh," Adam says. He fills a glass with water and hands it over. "Rinse." 

Tommy rinses, and flees. They are not having this conversation again.

*

It's early evening, air still warm and close, and they're out in the pool, Adam teasing Tommy that no one would ever believe him if he told them he got Tommy to go skinny dipping.

"The sun's almost down. Nothing to burn me," Tommy says. "And it's our pool. Just you, me, and the butterflies. You've seen it all before." 

"Fuck, yeah, I have." Adam scoops him out of the water and dumps him on one of the wide chaise lounges, biting his ass and tickling him until he's breathless and gasping, then spreading his cheeks and licking him open until he's begging and incoherent. 

"Love this," Adam says. "So fucking much." He's stroking Tommy's hole with his thumb, slick hot pressure, almost breaching Tommy's body, but always pulling back. "Love how your skin tastes--" He licks again, broad wet swipe then teasing quick press inside. "How you beg for my fingers, want me all up inside you." 

And Tommy does, god, so much. "Yes, jesus, yes," Tommy pleads, feeling his hole twitching under Adam's gaze as Adam's thumbs spread him wide to the last of the sunlight. Finally, Adam gives him what he wants, fucking him with thumbs and tongue and fingers, whispering dirty-sweet endearments into his skin until Tommy ruts into his own palm, shivering as the night leaches the heat from the day. 

Having learned his lesson about going to bed with chlorine hair, Tommy flips the shower on when they get upstairs. "Can I join you?" Adam asks.

"Stupid question. You can always join me." 

Adam looks at him with skeptical look number three (the adorable one) on his face. 

"Except when you're already half an hour late for a meeting and you've already done your hair and gotten dressed." 

Before Adam can skip to skeptical look number five (bordering on incredulous), Tommy adds, "And when your mom is downstairs making us breakfast." 

"She would never have known," Adam grumbles, but that's a lie, and they both know it. "Fine. You are generous with sharing your showers." Adam smiles, slow and with intent. "And your ass. Gonna let me fuck you once you've got rid of the swimming pool?" 

"Stupid question," Tommy says again. 

Adam, also generous, licks and licks and licks him, rolling him on the bed, licks down his spine, up his thighs, over his nuts, around and around and in, until Tommy's threatening to cut off Adam's dick and use it as a dildo. They're both laughing when Adam hauls him up and into his lap, shoving in deep and perfect, Tommy's back pressed to his chest, his wide hands keeping them both from falling.

*

Scooping leaves out of the pool with a skimmer in Adam's too-big flip flops is so far from the stupidest thing Tommy's ever done that it doesn't seem fair it had such dire consequences. On the other hand, maybe it's just all those other stupid--dangerous--things were saving it up until he had someone he could actually count on to take care of him, and not just a drunken asshole who'd talked him into the idiocy to begin with. Not that Tommy's really thinking about that right now. Mostly he's lying at the edge of the swimming pool bleeding _everywhere_ , trying really really hard not to vomit. So hard, that there is nothing left in him trying to stop the crying.

Adam screamed when he was falling. Tommy remembers that. And now there's pain, and a towel, and Adam's hands and Adam's voice, and something about an ambulance. Tommy's pretty sure he doesn't need an ambulance, but then he's puking, and his head is _exploding_ , and he isn't going to need an ambulance because he's going to be dead by the time it gets here. 

The hospital has good drugs. And the nurse looks like Sophie and jokes that he's lucky he's got rock-star hair, because at least he won't have to worry about a bald spot where they shaved his head to give him stitches. Adam is wearing scrubs. Tommy tries to ask him why, but it comes out, "Waah ausa." 

"You threw up on my clothes," Adam says. 

Tommy closes his eyes. A cool hand lights on his forehead, soft and small and not at all Adam's, and Sophie nurse says something, and Adam answers, and then Adam's hand is on his shoulder, and his other hand is folding Tommy's up tight, and Adam's whispering, "No sleeping baby. You can rest your eyes, but no sleeping." 

When Adam starts singing Personal Jesus, he sounds like Johnny Cash. Tommy can't tell if he's trying, or if it's just because he's sorta freaking out. Either way, Tommy appreciates it. 

He does not appreciate it when the doctor tries to get him to stay in overnight for observation. He's finished resting his eyes by that point, mostly because someone was kind enough to turn off the overhead lights in favor of the bedside lamp, and Adam's done Fever, Sleepwalker, half of Adele's album, and a Marylin Manson-esque reprise of Personal Jesus and, woah, no. Tommy revived enough to call it to a halt before he ruined the song forever. Some things are just not appropriate for concussions. 

"I can observe him," Adam's saying, his grip on Tommy's arm so tight Tommy's a little worried he's going to break a finger. Or, like, Tommy's humerus. And wow. He must be feeling better if he can be naming bones. 

"'S'my humerus," Tommy says. The look that gets from the doctor isn't reassuring. 

"Sorry," Adam says and loosens his grip to trying-to-keep-Tommy-from-falling-off-a-cliff pressure. 

"He can observe me," Tommy says, and he's not slurring his words at all. Because he's awesome when he needs to be.

Clearly used to having this conversation, the doctor sighs a little and pulls a list out of his pocket. When he starts in on symptoms and life-threatening this and thats, Tommy stops listening. That's Adam's job. His is to get better. Sophie nurse told him so. He thinks. That might have been Adam, actually. 

"He can observe me," Tommy says again, because seriously, this place is giving him a headache. 

"Perseveration," The doctor says. "One of the things you should call about. I think he should stay just one night." 

Tommy has no idea what perse-whatever is, but he doesn't have it. "I'm not whatevering," he says. "I'm reiterating that it's really time to go now." He doesn't mention that he'd like to get out of here before he throws up again, because he's pretty sure that's on the list, too.

Adam, unsurprisingly, is much more convincing than Tommy in the end, but he gets them out of there and into the back of-- "Why is the nurse driving us home?" Tommy asks. 

Before Adam can put words to the confusion writ on his face, Tommy recognizes the car and realizes this is actual Sophie. "Oh," he says. "The nurse looked like you." 

Sophie pats his back and holds open the car door. Tommy's pretty sure he hears Adam whisper, "She did have brown hair, anyway," but it's noisy in the parking lot, and his head hurts, so he ignores it. 

It probably says something about how he's feeling that Tommy's not even a little bit embarrassed when Adam carries him up to bed with Sophie watching. The two of them have a little conflab by the bedroom door while he tries to find some way to lie that doesn't make his head feel like it's on fire in a vise, and wonders if it's almost time for him to take some pain killers again. Sadly, when Adam comes back, he's empty handed.

"She's gonna get us some groceries and stuff, and pick up your prescriptions," Adam says, rubbing soothingly at Tommy's hip. Concussions suck, because hip rubbing should be sexy, not soothing. 

"No drugs yet?" Tommy tries to keep the plaintive out of his voice, but fails spectacularly. 

There is mercy in the world, though, because Adam says, "Fifteen minutes. They gave us a dose to go home on. Then you can sleep." 

When Tommy wakes up, he has vague memories of Adam poking him, and feeding him more pills, and making him drink a glass of milk, and he figures that's a good thing. The cut on his head stings like a fucker, but it no longer feels like it's on fire, and that's definitely a good thing. He really really needs to take a piss, and that sucks donkey balls, because he's pretty sure moving is going to be seriously not fun. 

He starts with an arm, and that goes okay, so he tries a leg. Adam is breathing slow and steady beside him, dead to the world. Probably exhausted if he was up all night poking Tommy. He needs to sleep. Tommy needs to get to the bathroom. He's a big boy. These things don't have to be mutually exclusive. 

"Where you going?" Adam manages to sound both still out of it and like the house had better be on fire if Tommy is thinking of getting out of bed. 

"Gotta piss," Tommy admits. "S'all ri', you can stay here though." 

That works about as well as he suspected it would. Adam moves like the wind for someone still mostly asleep, though that could be because Tommy is moving like a fucking glacier. Either way, by the time he can get mostly sitting up, Adam's down between his knees, hands on Tommy's ribs, saying, "Hold my shoulders. Make sure you're steady before you try to stand." 

Tommy makes sure. And then waits a second to make extra sure. And he still nearly falls on his ass when he goes to get up. Or would have if Adam weren't holding him. On the plus side, he must be feeling better, because it's totally humiliating. 

"Stop it," Adam says, and Tommy didn't even _say_ anything. "It's me."

If it has to be anyone, it's Adam every time, but Tommy still doesn't like it. 

Neither of them pretend Tommy's going to piss standing up, but once he's sitting down he's pretty sure Adam doesn't need to kneel on the bath mat, hands on Tommy's thighs. "I've got this," Tommy says, bladder aching now that he's so close and yet so far from emptying it. 

"If I told you I've let a guy piss _on_ me would it make you feel better about this?" Adam asks. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

"You've--" Tommy stops. Adam has licked his own come out of Tommy's ass, seemingly with a great deal of pleasure. Getting pissed on is probably not that big a deal. Still, "Why?" though. 

"Burning Man," Adam answers, like that explains it all. It probably does. Tommy's body seems to accept the answer, anyway, because suddenly he's pissing like he drank a keg by himself. 

Adam's murmured _That's it, baby, that's good_ s are not really helping him to feel any better about it. "You are so fucking weird," Tommy says. But Adam just looks at him fondly, pats his cheek, and _kisses_ him. Tommy puts the little lurch his belly does down to concussion symptoms, ignoring that his stomach is a good six inches above the lurching. 

There's breakfast in bed, more pills, and then Adam rubbing his back until he falls asleep. When he wakes up, the sun is afternoon-low, and he can hear Adam running on the treadmill across the hall. He feels waaaaay better. Nothing like good, but definitely much farther away from bad. He's even pretty sure he can make it to the bathroom on his own. His mouth tastes like he licked a badger, and he would really fucking like to brush his teeth. Sitting up makes him feel a little less better, but he still figures he's good to go. There's totally the night stand, then a dresser, and then the bathroom door is right there. It's not like he has to make it the whole way totally unassisted. 

And he makes it. Doesn't even get woozy. Well, only a little, and only once he starts brushing. But a firm grip on the counter and maybe a propped elbow, and he's all good. Mostly all-- jesus. Maybe he'd better sit down. 

He's just plunked his ass down on the toilet, toothbrush still gripped in one hand, when Adam appears in the doorway, face a storm. Before Tommy can even open his mouth to apologise, Adam's down on his knees, elbows propped on Tommy's thighs, hands bracing his chest. "Don't you fucking disappear on me, Tommy Joe. Don't you fucking _dare_ ," Adam says, voice all knotted up in his throat. 

"Hey," Tommy says. "Hey. S'okay." He props his forearms on Adam's shoulders and rests his forehead very gingerly against Adam's. 

"I will tie you to the bed," Adam whispers. "Don't think I won't." 

"Wouldn't be the first time." Tommy chuckles ruefully. "Not sure how fun it'd be right now though." 

Now that he's sitting, head down, he feels a lot less dizzy. And a lot more like he needs to take advantage of where he's sitting. There is no chance of getting Adam to leave, he knows that, but if he plays his cards right, he can probably get Adam to help him get his boxers down, hold his hand while he takes a piss, since that seems to make Adam happy these days, and then Tommy can distract him with making him start the shower or something.

It's a good plan and it doesn't even feel that weird having Adam hold his hand and rub his arm while he's pissing. Tommy has to promise about twenty-three times that he's not going to get his stitches wet, but Adam finally agrees that as long as Tommy lets him get in and hold him up, he could do with getting clean. 

But Tommy forgot about the fancy schmancy shower controls that auto-set the water to your preferred temperature, which means Adam's back at his side in thirty seconds instead of a couple minutes. By then it's too late to turn back. 

"Shit," Adam says, when he realizes what Tommy's doing. 

Tommy refuses to speak to him, which means he doesn't get to point out that stating the obvious is an asshole move under the circumstances. He also refuses to look at him, which means he can't glare meaningfully. Adam seems oblivious to the whole incommunicado thing, though. 

"You love me!" he says, like Tommy just gave him a fucking Maserati. What the fuck is wrong with him. Seriously.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Tommy grits out. "Seriously." 

"Nothing's wrong with me," Adam says, and fucking _kneels down between Tommy's feet, what the fuck_. 

"You have a shit kink. _Which you neglected to mention._ " Tommy cannot believe they are having this conversation while he's taking a crap, but he never did master that sucking it back in thing.

"It's not a shit _kink_. It's just--" Adam rests his hands on Tommy's thighs in what is presumably meant to be a reassuring move, but at the moment feels a little too much like Adam trying to soothe him while he fucks in slow and deep, and Tommy is seriously going to freak out in a minute. 

Tommy lifts Adam's hands by the wrists, and drops them down by Adam's side. "It's just what." 

"You let me so close to you, but you won't let me see you like this. And I can't stop thinking about whether you're worried I won't love you anymore, or if you're ashamed of something, or if you don't trust me enough--" 

"Oh, my god. Adam. Stop talking." Tommy is done, but he's making Adam leave before he wipes his ass. He is, and Adam is not going to argue. "It's _really_ not that deep. I do not have a complex, or whatever. I just think that bathroom time is private time." 

"Is that what Tommy Time means?" Adam does not look chastised. He really is crazy. 

"Ugh. Shut up. Get out. Give me like sixty fucking seconds alone, and then you can come back and white-knight me into the shower or whatever." 

He is crazy, but he's apparently not stupid, because Adam does as he's told. Tommy wipes and flushes, but holds up his end of the bargain, and waits for Adam to come back before he tries to stand. 

Tommy is still feeling awkward and not sexy when they get in the shower, but Adam is Adam, and the force of his affection is impossible to resist. By the time they get out, Tommy's happy to let Adam towel him off, comb some dry shampoo through his hair, and settle him under a blanket in one of the armchairs by the window while he changes the sheets. 

Despite having slept most of the day away, Tommy's still tired, but he decides to stay where he is, with his phone and Adam's iPad while Adam heads downstairs to make some dinner. When he starts up twitter, Tommy discovers some TMZ asshole was at the hospital as they were leaving yesterday, and speculated that Tommy had a drunken accident. Sophie and Adam have both done some damage control: Sophie reminding kids to pay attention to the DO NOT RUN signs at the pool, adding his name at the end, and Adam thanking people for their concern and reassuring people Tommy would be fine. So much easier than calling a PR team for damage control. 

But oh my god, his @replies. Five seconds is enough of a look at those, and he moves on, tweets a joke about looking for a pool guy and he wonders if Woody is available. It depresses him a little that he gets more Toy Story questions than discussion of Geena Davis in a bikini in response, but whatever. _Earth Girls are Easy_ is a classic; he'll stand by that. 

He texts Sophie to thank her again for everything, and Isaac to thank him again for having an awesome wife, and he replies to all the _omg r u ok?_ texts from anyone he's had actual face time with in the last year. Everyone else he figures is just looking for gossip, and they can read his twitter. 

Adam still isn't back with food, but really good smells are coming from the kitchen like Tommy's going to get to eat something more exciting than toast, so he doesn't really mind. He heads to Tumblr and makes a post about shoe safety and the ways that falling and cracking your head open can and cannot be equated with getting shitfaced. He doesn't mention TMZ or their rumor mongering.

Finally Adam appears with a tray laden with taquitos, mini bagel pizzas, tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, and a big plate of salad. "Didn't know what you wanted," he says.

"You could have asked." Tommy laughs. " If you were too lazy to come back upstairs, you have the internet in your pocket and knew I was online." 

Adam kisses the undamaged side of his head. "Also, I didn't know what I wanted. I realized I haven't had anything but a bowl of cereal since we ate brunch yesterday." 

By the time the tray is empty, Adam's lying on the bed groaning, hands over his belly, and at least half of Tommy's headache is gone. And that's before he takes his painkillers. Yay for being on the mend.

*

About half the parties they get invited to, Tommy doesn't know the host well enough that he feels bad bowing out. But when Roxie has a show, huge deal, big names, Tommy wants to give his support. He's not really feeling the after party, and is thinking about going home, but then this guy who makes guitars by hand in a workshop in his back yard corners him, and dude is fucking fascinating, and the evening flies past.

Adam was clearly stuck with either people who bored him nearly to death, or people who wouldn't stop getting him drinks, because by the time the party's winding down, he's _wasted_. It takes all Tommy's smooth talking and fast hands to keep their poor cabbie from getting a much better look at Tommy's junk than anyone Tommy's not on first-name terms with needs to have. His pants are around his knees by the time he's got the deadbolt flicked behind them, and Adam's alternating babbling about how Tommy's got the prettiest dick ever with sucking hickies onto Tommy's hipbones. 

"Alright, Romeo," Tommy says, grabbing Adam's hair and wrenching his head back hard enough to make him pay attention. "Let's take this upstairs." He's been here before and Adam passed out (or fell asleep abruptly if you get Adam's side of the story) on the tiles in the foyer. Spending a night on the tiles made Adam about as grumpy as you'd expect it to, and Tommy just isn't strong enough to lift his dead weight on his own. 

"But I want to put your _penis_ in my _mouth_ ," Adam enunciates carefully. 

If they've reached the Miss Manners talks dirty portion of the evening, Tommy had better work fast. He grabs Adam around the waist with one arm and hauls his own jeans up with his other hand, heading for the stairs. 

By the time they get to the top, Adam has forgotten about his mission for dick, which is just as well, because while Tommy's all about sloppy blow jobs, he doesn't want to risk Adam trying to say something while he still has Tommy's dick between his teeth. 

Once he's gotten most of their clothes and all Adam's jewelry off, Tommy drags him into the bathroom, trying to avoid a middle-of-the-night, climb-over-Tommy, fall-on-his-ass piss journey. When Tommy stands him in front of the toilet, Adam starts waving his dick around, so Tommy makes him sit. As much as Adam probably deserves to have to clean piss off the floor in the morning, Tommy would like to avoid having to stand in it to empty his own bladder. 

He was gonna brush his teeth while Adam took care of business, but Adam wraps around him like an octopus and tips Tommy right onto his lap. 

"No," Tommy says. "You are not fucking--" but he is. He's pissing like a fucking fire hose while he sucks on Tommy's neck, petting his hip and crotch. "You sure this isn't a kink for you?" Tommy asks. "Because this feels pretty kinky."

If it _is_ kinky, he can work with it. Not his thing, but honest to fuck it wouldn't be the first time he tried something with Adam that he didn't know he was into, and if trying leads to liking, he's cool. But Adam swears it's _not_ a kink, and Tommy's just not sure what to do with that. 

The sound of pissing finally stops, and Tommy goes to stand, but Adam clutches him more tightly, moves the petting from Tommy's dick to his face. 

"Whyyyyy," Adam moans. "Whyyyyy?" It's the most pathetic thing Tommy's ever seen, and he's so fucking fucked, because he should want to give Adam a good slapping, and he just wants to make it all better. 

"Why what, baby?" Tommy pets Adam's arm with the three fingers not clenched awkwardly in Adam's grip. 

"You always hide from me still." 

Since Tommy hasn't actually hidden from Adam in more than a year--not since they finally stopped pretending this was anything less than what it is--and, you know, given their current location, Tommy suspects he knows where this is going.

"I don't hide, Adam. I close the bathroom door. _Like a normal person._ "

"But I loooooooove you," Adam slurs. Insistently. Very, very insistently. Tommy feels like kind of an asshole. 

"I love you too, baby. I promise. Now let me brush my teeth, and let's go to bed." 

"Tommmmmyyyy," Adam says, and snuffles into Tommy's neck. 

Jesus. He's so fucking whipped. 

Wiggling in Adam's hold, Tommy gets turned around so he's straddling Adam's thighs. Pulling up his t-shirt a little so he can see, Tommy gets his dick poking down into the bowl between Adam's legs. "I'm going to piss on your cock," he says, blushing at the words, because this is fucking _ridiculous_. But he cannot stand to see Adam all sad. And sure, Adam's drunk, but if he's seriously still thinking about this more than two months since they last talked about it, he's obviously dwelling. 

"Are you drunk?" Adam asks. Tommy's not sure what the right answer is, so he goes with the truth. 

"Not really, no. I love you, and you're clearly a lunatic, and just shut up." 

Adam shuts up, and rests his head on Tommy's shoulder so he can look down at their crossed dicks. It takes everything Tommy has to get started, but he finally lets go. It's difficult not to think about all the other times they've been in similar positions, but with their dicks hard, someone's hand wrapped around, the times they've jizzed on each other, rubbed their come into the other one's skin. His dick's at the wrong angle for him to actually piss on Adam's junk, but Tommy considers--just for a second--tilting it up, letting the liquid splash on Adam's skin. Wonders what Adam would think about it if he did. 

As soon as he's done, Tommy breaks Adam's hold and escapes to the sink, washing his hands and brushing his teeth, trying not to catch Adam's eye when he looks over to see the dopey pleased smile on his face. Tommy's not sure if he hopes Adam remembers this in the morning, or hopes he doesn't. 

In the morning, Adam wishes, quietly and with much moaning, for death. Instead, Tommy brings him water, and tea, and pain killers and toast, and Adam pats his hands and chooses more sleep over the great beyond. In the afternoon, he pads downstairs looking all freshly scrubbed but still a little wobbly, and leans over the back of the couch to kiss Tommy behind the ear. "Why are you so awesome?" he asks. 

" _So_ awesome," Tommy agrees. He concentrates on the zombie trying to eat his face on screen, ducking and whipping around to shoot him in the head. He's not sure if Adam is referring to the hangover breakfast, or what Tommy did last night. 

With a weirdly graceful sort of roll and slump thing, Adam climbs over the back of the sofa to end up lying with his head on Tommy's thigh. "Three feet was too far to walk around?" Tommy asks. The zombies are back in force now, and blood is spurting from his skull and neck. With a grunt of disgust at his ineptitude--he's only on level three for fuck's sake--he shoves the controller aside. 

"Subtle, aren't they?" Adam gestures at the blood-red YOU DIED on the screen. 

Remote in hand, Tommy considers putting something else on, but hits the power button instead. "You'd know all about subtle," he says. 

Adam rolls his head so he's looking up at Tommy. "Did I make you piss on me last night, or was that a really weird dream?"

"See? Totally subtle." Tommy is regretting putting down the remote, because it would be awesome to have something to do with his hands other than rest them on Adam, who suddenly seems to be _all over_ his lap. But then Adam grabs his right hand and knots their fingers together on his chest, so Tommy figures he might as well give in and comb his left through Adam's hair. 

"Not a dream then." 

"You wouldn't stop _whining_. I figured the only way to shut you up was to take a leak." 

"Wish I could actually remember it," Adam says thoughtfully.

"Of course you do," Tommy says on the huff of a laugh, shoving at Adam's shoulder. "Seriously. What is your deal with my bathroom habits? If you get off on guys pissing on you, just tell me. You know I'm easy for your kinky shit." Tommy bites his tongue. Great choice of words, there. "But, like, if that's not it, what is your deal?"

Shrugging a little, Adam reaches around to put Tommy's hand back in his hair. "Honestly? I don't know. Me being a stubborn bastard, I guess."

"Weird thing to be stubborn about." 

"It's just--" Adam grabs Tommy's thigh, gives it a squeeze. "You give me everything I ask for. Like, _everything_."

"Do not." Tommy tells Adam to fuck off all the time. 

"If I really want it, you do." 

Maybe. Adam can get his own damn coffee, but look what Tommy was willing to do last night when Adam begged. "Hmm," he says. 

"And I don't know. I mean logically, it's just we were obviously raised different. Closing the bathroom door wasn't a big deal in my house, and theater was a bunch of communal changing rooms, and privacy to me has always been a lot more about what's going on inside your head that you want to keep to yourself, not really body stuff."

"And then you got famous." Tommy tugs gently at Adam's hair then goes back to petting. 

"Heh, yeah. The media fucks all definitions of privacy." Adam looks closely at Tommy's face, eyes flicking over his features. "But you wear your heart on your sleeve with me, and I feel like I can say anything, do anything with you, and then, like, there's this part of you I'm not allowed to see, and I don't know what to do with that. I guess it made me a little crazy." 

"A little." Tommy leans down to kiss Adam's forehead, his nose, his lips. He gets a shy smile in return, one he hasn't seen in forever. Tommy pinches Adam's belly gently. "The fact that I let you put your tongue up my ass, that I put my tongue up _your_ ass, doesn't make you feel any better?" 

"That's different. That's sex." 

Tommy's never really done the casual sex thing, and he's definitely never casually licked another person's ass, but he gets that Adam sees sex as not necessarily always intimate. That they're coming at their relationship from different places. "Well, never mind better, it makes me feel excellent," Tommy says, giving Adam his best leer. This conversation is getting a little bit too serious. Baby steps and all that. No one ever, in Tommy's whole life, has lived as much inside his skin as Adam does. He'll get there.

Adam either agrees with the whole excellent thing or sympathizes with Tommy's need to slow down, because he goes with the change of tone. "Hear it's a great hangover cure," he says. "And I did just get out of the shower..."

**Author's Note:**

> if you're thinking this seems familiar, it is an old fic that somehow seems to not have been posted here, so that might be why.


End file.
